


Safe

by beltainefaerie



Series: Opening Up [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Multi, Polyamory, Sexuality Crisis, alternative relationship, relationship dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 04:05:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is not the only one with powers of deduction. While John is having a crisis, Mary finds an elegant solution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John liked things clean and organized and safe and normal. Except where he didn’t. It was elegant in its own way.  He had his sweet, normal, beautiful marriage. His loving wife.  White picket fence, metaphorically if not literally. So of course he also wanted something dark and twisted and dangerous.

 

He couldn’t stop imagining inky curls fisted in his hands. Shoving Sherlock to his knees in the mud of some back alley and stuffing that smart mouth. Pounding him into the floor in front of the fireplace, taking him completely apart. There was violence in these fantasies, possibly even more than desire. But he was beyond denying the desire, at least in his own head.

 

Something between them needed purging and as ridiculous as it sounded, as much as he knew it could shatter them as easily as it could mend, he couldn’t help that he wanted it. Filthy and terrifying and glorious. They hadn’t ever, in the time before.  He hadn’t realized how deeply he wished they had until after. And then it had been tinged with so much grief and guilt and horror.

 

He could see it in Sherlock, too. It didn’t matter that Sherlock didn’t generally do sentiment.  God, John didn’t know if he even did sex. But he could see it in a glance here, a touch there.  His feelings were twinned in this man. They could so easily…

 

But then there was Mary. Wonderful, sweet, kind Mary, who brought John back to life.  How could he hurt her? Feelings warred, creating cracks and chasms everywhere, driving things apart. But he still got on, didn’t he? Going through all the motions of home and work. And now brilliant cases again.  It could be perfect. Except that it wasn’t.

 

One day, dashing back to Baker Street after a crime scene, he couldn’t stop himself. They paused for a moment, catching their breath and before he could think, he reached out and buried his fingers in Sherlock’s hair dragging him down, lips almost touching when Sherlock went rigid.

 

“Go home, John.”

 

John dropped his hands to his sides looking for all the world like he had been slapped.

 

“Mary’s waiting.  She’s worried.  We’ve been gone too long and you were very nearly shot. Go home.”

 

“Sherlock, I…” I’m sorry seemed wrong.  He wasn’t sorry, he just couldn’t seem to form what he was feeling.  Disappointed, confused.

 

Unmoored.

 

Well, hardly different than the last six weeks, then, really.  “Right, I should just…. I’ll see you tomorrow. Have Lestrade ring if he needs more of a statement, right?”

 

John turned on his heel and fled, not actually running, but it certainly felt like running away. And of course it started to rain, but that felt right, didn’t it? He didn’t bother hailing a cab, hoping that the walk would clear his head. By the time he arrived home, he would be soaked to the skin, but he couldn’t be arsed to care.

 

He could barely fit the key in the lock, shaking as he was, but he did it. She was there in a heartbeat.

 

Sherlock was right.  He was always damnably right. How had he almost…

 

She was waiting and worried and he fell into her arms.  John was crying now, wasn’t he? Bloody hell. Everything gone suddenly pear shaped.

 

“John, are you alright?” She asked, though he clearly wasn’t. Then he remembered the blood on his jacket and how she had no way to know it wasn’t his.

 

“I’m not hurt.  I just…I think I’m going through something,” he managed. Bloody brilliant. That was perfectly clear wasn’t it. Not the least bit foggy, he thought, the sarcasm feeling bitter.

 

She kissed his forehead, his cheek, his lips. “Well, you’re home now.” She helped him out of his wet clothes and brought his pajamas.

 

He was sitting at the kitchen table now, though he didn’t remember sitting. She was bringing tea. Beautiful, perfect, efficient Mary.

 

Their fingertips brushed as she handed him the cup. It would have felt normal and comforting if there wasn’t such concern in her eyes. She looked at him for a moment like she didn’t know him.  And perhaps she didn’t. He didn’t feel like her John tonight. Respected doctor, loving husband. There were qualities that never wavered, no matter the setting. Steady, protective.  There was always the quiet dichotomy between warrior and caretaker, but lately caretaker had been winning.

 

There were nights with either of them when he felt luminous, like all his pleasant but average qualities had been polished into something extraordinary. But tonight was not one of them. He felt haggard and wrung out. Sherlock’s John was a bit reckless where Mary’s was careful and he didn’t know how to be right now. Everything was coming apart.

 

He looked down into his tea cup as if he had forgotten what it was for. Mary brushed the damp hair back from his forehead as she whispered, “John, you’re fine.  It’s all fine.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Watching John walk away, Sherlock knew it had been right.

 

He just wasn’t quite sure why he done it. He had pushed John away when all he wanted to do was lean into that kiss. He wasn’t noble. For as long as he could remember he had been called impulsive, thoughtless, selfish and while he wasn’t truly a sociopath, it was close enough to the truth for most people. But nobility was part of it, wasn’t it?

 

He _wasn’t_ noble, but John usually was.

 

When John was out of sight, Sherlock leaned against the wall, unconsciously steepling his fingers as he retreated into himself. 

 

John _was_ noble and upright and the last person he would expect to have an affair. Some would expect dalliances from ‘Three Continents’ Watson, but not if they knew him. He had left that behind with ‘I do’. If John broke his vows, he would die from it somehow. A slow painful descent back into depression and shame and after all he had put John through, Sherlock couldn’t stomach that.

 

And so, John would probably never try again. Sherlock let that loss sink in for a moment as well as the surprise that in a moment of  weakness, Sherlock had fiercely protected the man John strives to be. _Well, aren’t we all full of surprises?_

 

If he was a poetic man, he might say that he wanted to weep for not taking this moment, this kiss that could have been. Poetry blurring into his more scientific nature, he found that he was frustrated that he would never be able to catalogue the myriad sights and sounds John could make, to record in minute detail exactly how John tasted and the texture of his skin. But he tried so very hard not to devolve into useless sentimentality.

 

He wasn’t aware of sliding down the wall to sit, knees to chest on the pavement any more than he was aware that it had begun to rain.

 

This was more than passing sentiment, that chemical concoction of phenethylamine, serotonin, dopamine and oxytocin that made one giddy and foolhardy. Bearing striking resemblance to severe pathology. Love was closer to madness than anyone wanted to admit.To recreate it in the lab you only had to be slightly off to generate mania, schizophrenia. And armed with the sure knowledge that sentiment was merely composed of chemical compounds and could be ignored as easily as all his other needs, as he strived so hard to be above it all, this had quietly glided past that stage ages ago.

 

He wasn’t falling for John Watson.  He wasn’t infatuated. He was absolutely in love. That steady, all or nothing, perfectly committed feeling found in couples after years of marriage. The fact that it hadn’t gone away, but actually deepened for all that he ignored it was distressing enough. Being able to name the components, the addition of vasopressin and a shift in the balance of oxytocin, was not comforting in the least.

 

It had never required saying, the comfort and trust and dependence between them. It was simply there, in the time before. Ripped apart with the nightmare of separation and loss and betrayal, but returning. Mending faster than he had any right to hope for, actually. And so, while the desire was still there, he was also fiercely protective. Absolutely unique among his experiences. So apparently ingrained that he would even deny something he wanted with a desperation he had only ever associated with cocaine, if it meant protecting John from himself.

 

So of course he had done the right thing. He just wished, as he stood up and began the walk home, that it cost him less.

 

…

 

Mary sat in the café, clearly carefully chosen as neutral ground. Not popping by Baker Street for tea on some excuse. Not inviting him to her flat while John was on at the surgery.  And why this café? Not too close to either home, but further from John’s work than either. It could be taken as chance, but she was shrewd, and he would lay money down that it had been on purpose.

 

He was reluctant to hurt her, and it seemed like whatever this conversation would be, it was likely. She was charming and intelligent and perfect for John. He could see it the moment he met her.He watched her through the glass for a moment. She didn’t seem angry, just nervous, as she sipped her tea and fidgeted with her purse. She also hadn’t dressed any differently than usual. Simple dress, light make-up, hair done, but not excessively. Shoes made for walking. Not the battle mode many women go into when they feel threatened, then, layering on cosmetics and new clothing as though it were armor. Nor was she letting herself go in the fashion of one who had given up. In fact, she looked lovely and perfectly normal. Interesting.

 

He noted another cup already on the table, but they were meeting alone. She had ordered for him. A bit presumptuous, but certainly efficient. Possibly to expedite their conversation, possibly to demonstrate that she is also perfectly capable of observing.

 

Nothing more really to be gleaned from over here. _Best to get this over with._

 

“Good afternoon, Mary, ” he said as he slid into the chair opposite her. From the moment she texted him, he knew they would need to talk about John. John hadn’t been right lately and you didn’t have to be Sherlock to see that.

 

“Good afternoon. Coffee, the way you like it”, she said as she nudged the cup towards him. “Sherlock, I am not going to beat around the bush. Are you in love with John?”

 

 _Well, that was to the point, wasn’t it._ “Mary, I have no plans to get in the way of your union,” he said carefully.

 

“I have no doubt of that, but I’m in no mood for evasion. Sherlock Holmes, do you love my husband?”

 

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, endeavoring to state it plainly, like any other fact, though all he managed was, “Yes.”

 

“Good.”  His eyes snapped open and he looked up at Mary, really looked at her warm, earnest face.  No trace of bitterness or sarcasm.  It should have made him relax, but he was practically undone. This was too soon in the conversation for it to be derailed. What were they doing here?

 

“I’m glad you love him. So do I,” she continued, her eyes brightening even further.  She looked far too cheerful for a woman about to dissolve her marriage. Thankfully, she also didn’t look like she wanted to punch him, which, feisty as she could be, he had been prepared for. Especially if she had made false assumptions.

 

“There was no sense in stirring this all up any further if you didn’t, so I needed to know. You weren’t together before your… time away?”

 

“No. I wasn’t even aware…” He trailed off, damnably at a loss for words. And truly, how could he be expected to say it to anyone else?  He had never told John, never intended to. He died for John’s happiness and safety. Why would he rip that apart now?

 

Mary looked down at her own folded hands, her teacup untouched since he sat down beside her.

 

“I knew what a few of the papers said, but John only talked about ex-girlfriends and rarely at that. The way he spoke of you, well, I could tell there was something. It didn’t matter when you were gone, but you aren’t now and” she looked up, meeting his eyes, “I think something has to be done, for all our sakes.” She took a sip of tea now, as though she finally remembered it and when Sherlock didn’t say anything, she continued.

 

“I haven’t spoken of this to John. I’ve alternately soothed him and given him space. I haven’t pressed. It isn’t exactly like he is dying to sit down and have a chat about these feelings, but I’m not blind. He is moody and conflicted and I don’t want the love of my life to suffer like this.”

 

“What exactly are you proposing?” Sherlock asked, finding his voice again. He couldn’t see the path she was treading and it was as unnerving as staring at Irene for the first time. Needing to ask the question costing him more than he cared to admit.

 

“I want you to date my husband. If he would agree, that is. Obviously.”

  
Sherlock had the poise and grace not to spit out his coffee, but if there was ever a moment he could understand that comedic trope for conveying shock, it was now.


	3. Chapter 3

John glanced at his phone. Sherlock was still texting him like normal. Mary made him tea this morning and kissed him on her way to her classroom. Everything seemed fine.

 

 _So why do I still feel so wrung out._ Christ, he had actually tried to kiss Sherlock. On his way home to his wife. Living with the man for a year and half and no matter what anyone said, he’d insist that it wasn’t anything like that. _He comes back from the dead and what? I’m suddenly gay? Bloodybuggeringhell. But I love Mary. And I love sex with Mary. It’s not like I think about him when I am with her._

 

 _No, just whenever you’re not_ , his mind supplied so very helpfully. Not perfectly true, but true enough.

 

He slipped on his coat and tried not to let his thoughts wander too far down that line as he made his way to the surgery.

 

When he arrived, he greeted Sarah. He complemented her dress, a lovely shade of turquoise that really brought out her eyes. _She is lovely, isn’t she._ It struck him every now and again, for although they had settled into a pleasant friendship they still had a kind of sweet flirting. Banter  that you know will never amount to anything, which worked better all around. They just weren’t suited, but she and Mary got on, which was great. They would meet for lunch or get their nails done. Occasionally when Sarah was dating someone they’d all go out together. It was nice.

 

After his shift, John stopped off to grab a coffee. While waiting on line, John surveyed the room, enjoyed checking out several women. Married didn’t mean dead, after all. Experimentally, he looked at the men. _Nothing._ He wasn’t really surprised. He thought about it vaguely when Harry had come out, but men were completely uninteresting. Perfectly ignorable, in fact. Later, he was fine turning a blind eye to a few of the men in the service and whatever they got up to, but really hadn’t seen the appeal, even isolated and that far from home.

 

_So what the actual fuck was it about Sherlock bloody Holmes?_

 

When he got home, Mary was out.  Locking himself in the bedroom with his laptop, he surfed the internet for porn.  Well, specifically gay porn. Blowjobs, anal, rimming, two guys rubbing their knobs together. _Seriously no._ He gave up after about thirty seconds of any given one. After about 10 minutes altogether with both brain and cock, completely unaffected, he closed the laptop and flopped back onto the bed. When he closed eyes, he found certain images replayed, replaced with Sherlock. Sherlock’s gorgeous lips parted by his soft, wet tongue, moistening them before he dipped his head down to engulf John’s prick. _Oh, lovely. Fine cockstand for that. Seriously? Fuck._

 

Best of all, before he could take care of that particular problem, he heard his text alert and, fishing his phone out of his pocket, found that Sherlock needed his help.

 

With a resigned sigh, John tucked the phone away and tried to think of alarmingly unsexy things, which shouldn’t be that hard, considering he was on his way to the scene of a double homicide.

 

When John arrived on the scene, Sherlock beckoned him to the bodies, “Oh, John good.  Come take a look at this.”

 

While John conducted an initial examination, Sherlock actually attempted small talk. _Not quite back to normal, then._ Sherlock Holmes didn’t chat. Although the, “How is Mary? Sherlock had asked, among other trivialities had seemed somehow more pointed.  “Fine,” was all John said on that front, and it was perfectly true, but why was Sherlock asking?

 

He confirmed cause and time of death practically by rote and couldn’t even be arsed to recall enough detail to give it title for the blog.   _Might as well call this the case of John’s sexuality crisis_ , he thought. He shook his head slightly as though trying to dislodge the thought. _Definitely not._

 

“She is brilliant. I can see why you like her,” Sherlock continued. “She reminds me of myself at times. In fact, I think she could actually learn to apply my methods. Of course teachers need to be more attuned to that than most and, John why are you staring at me like that?”

 

“Nothing. Really, Sherlock, I just don’t think I have ever heard you praise someone like that,” _or make small talk, or prattle on about something other than relevant data at a crime scene. Unless you had already solved it. In which case, why the hell am I here?_ John bit back.

 

“Hardly anyone is worthy of it, “ Sherlock replied as he turned, coat swirling, and strode off to speak with one of the officers.

 

John squinted at Sherlock as he walked off. _What the hell was that?_ Nervous energy after the last crime scene? Complementing Mary to redirect John to her? While he was a master at manipulation, he wasn’t one to falsely flatter someone’s intellect.

 

After a bit more awkward small talk with Sherlock and various officers, they said their goodnights.  In the old days they would have gotten take away, but now, Mary would be waiting.   _Shit, forgot to leave a note._ As they left the scene, they made their goodbyes to one another, as well. More confused than ever, John dragged himself home. Sherlock had been acting so strange.

 

As he was taking off his gloves, he heard Mary clear her throat.

 

He stopped midway through hanging up his coat, looking as though he had been caught out.

 

“John, this has to stop,” she said, her voice soft. John’s eyes widened like a rabbit in headlights.

 

‘What, Love?” he stammered, remembering to move again. Though he figured she meant Sherlock, what part? His mind was racing. _Forgetting to leave a note when he’d be out? Going to crime scenes? Or, shit, did he delete the gay porn from his browser history? Wouldn’t that be just perfect, when he hadn’t even been wanking to it?_ He felt ill. He was generally more reserved, but it took considerable strength not to sink to his knees and beg, _I love you please don’t leave me howcanweworkthisout._

 

She beckoned to him from the couch. “Come here.”

 

He walked like a man going to a death sentence. When he sat beside her, she took his hands and looked into his eyes.

 

“You’ve been struggling. You don’t want to talk about it. You act like you need to soldier through this, whatever it is, alone. But marriage is about the exact opposite. Honesty. Sharing.” She took a deep breath and continued, “There has always been a third in this relationship, John Watson, whether he was living or not. It doesn’t matter whether you ever told him you were in love with him. It shone through you when you spoke of him. It was in your eyes when you looked at him when he was first back. Like he was a goddamned miracle. And really, he is. You never needed to tell me. I’ve always known, just like I’ve always known it didn’t make you love me any less.” She reached out and stroked her hand down his cheek, cupping his jaw and leaning in for a kiss. It was too much. How did she understand? He hadn’t even been able to think it through that clearly.

 

“Stop trying to bury it. Stop worrying that you’ll hurt me. I want you to see where this takes you. I won’t compete for your attention. It would be utterly ridiculous. He’d win every time and I don’t bloody care. I love you, John Watson and I know he does too.”

 

John stared at his wife, eyes wide, looking as though his world was a snow globe that someone had just turned upside down and righted. He glanced around as though expecting to actually see the pieces settle. He was utterly speechless. What could he possibly say to that?

 

Sherlock stepped out of the kitchen.

 

“John, say something.”

 

He gaped at his friend and back at his wife, but it felt like static was in his head. Words wouldn’t come. If this was a comedy, he would either faint or punch Sherlock. It this was porn there would have been less talking and he’d have a threesome right now. But his life was neither, so he eventually choked out, “Sherlock, how in hell did you get here?”

 

“John you have never taken the fastest route anywhere and certainly never think to account for the streetlights. Besides which, you walked and I took a taxi. When I could see that Mary hadn’t talked to you yet, I made him follow a route of my own design and got here 5 minutes ahead of you.”

 

John couldn’t help rolling his eyes, but laughed, “Of course you did.” He paused for a moment, took a deep breath and gestured for Sherlock to sit.  He tried to fight down the flare of anger that Sherlock had known this was going to happen, because honestly, that was like being mad that the tides washed in and out or that the Earth went round the Sun. “Alright, so what does any of this mean?”

 

“Well, I think we see as we go along. In about an hour, I am going to have dinner with some girls from work. I could cancel if it seemed like I needed to, but if this went the way I hoped, it seemed like you two would need some time.”

 

“Are there any ground rules? Guidelines? Things you’d prefer we not do?”

 

Mary’s laugh was sweet and melodic. “Well, don’t go see the new Bond film without me. I’m not sure I could forgive you.” She honestly winked at him before continuing, but he knew she was dead serious, “As for what you were actually asking, I didn’t think you’d be ready to fall right into bed. It did take us a few dates if I recall. But this has been building between you forever and I am not opposed to the idea. Sherlock should be tested first. We were both given a clean bill of health at the beginning of our relationship and have been monogamous since then."

 

“I haven’t had many partners, and I have been tested, but there is the issue of the drugs. I am still clean. And while I meticulously maintained my own equipment and never shared, I would be more than happy to give you peace of mind. That settled, John, would you like to have dinner with me?”

 

“Yes, Sherlock. As my wife clearly approves of the idea, I think I would.”

 

Mary beamed at them.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as ever to my brilliant beta, mistresskikisshiphassailed!


End file.
